


Out of the Sand

by i_am_the_walruss



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_the_walruss/pseuds/i_am_the_walruss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John never really came home from the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Sand

**Author's Note:**

> This is un-beta'd and un-Britpicked. If I made any mistakes, do not hesitate to let me know.  
> Otherwise, please enjoy. Any and all comments/kudos/hits are very much appreciated. Thank you.

If every death was a raindrop, then war was a hurricane. But, John's war was a desert.

He wandered through the sand, fatigues weighing down his limbs, canteen sloshing when he brought it up to his lips to take a drink, but the sweet liquid refused to fall into his mouth. He cried out in frustration, wanted to throw the bloody thing away. He didn't.  
John trudged through the dry landscape, searching for something,  _anything_ to relieve himself from the hot Afghani sun that seared the exposed skin of his neck. His left hand tremored, left leg ached, canteen still heavy on his belt with the water he couldn't drink. It was endless, this heat. Endlessly hot and dry and isolated and he was so bloody  _tired._ And thirsty,  _god,_ he was thirsty. Sweat rolled down his forehead and down his eyelids, snapping shut when they began to sting. He wished he could wipe his face. He'd never take something as simple as a handkerchief for granted again.   
John risked a glance upwards, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. He'd been walking around for hours, but that damned bright orb in the sky never moved from its perpetual position of mid-day. Time was endless along with the heat, here. He wanted to scream. In fact, he might have but he wouldn't have known. He couldn't ever distinguish thoughts from words in this god-forsaken place. He wondered if this is what hell was like. He decided that he didn't really want to know at all, actually.   
He looked about himself, blinking away tears as hot air blew past him. There were miles and miles of dunes, never a lack of dunes, oh no. Not a single bush or tree or anything, really, in sight. No animals. Not even another human. Then again, why would there be? 

"Is this punishment?" John rasped out to no on in particular, "Punishment for losing a few? Haven't I saved enough to make up for that?"

He waited for a response, got none, and continued, "You can't save them all, you know, life just doesn't work that way. I tried, damn it all. I tried so hard and  _this_ is the thanks I get? To be trapped in this goddamned desert like a prisoner?"

He wondered if God existed. Realized that he didn't care. He laughed bitterly, throat dry, "You certainly picked a fine place to punish me in, then. I fucking hate it here and now I'm stuck forever." He tapped his canteen, "And this bloody thing, wonderful trick, it is. Filled to the brim with glorious water and I can't even take one bloody fucking sip. You're a right prick, do you know that? An absolute bastard."  
  
Not a single sound, save for the harsh inhale-exhale of his breath. "I hate you." The silence seemed to say  _I hate you, too._

 _  
_John continued to make his way through the desert, hateful sun at his back, still perspiring underneath his fatigues. He wanted to die. Or keel over and sleep for days on end, whichever happened sooner. Anything to be away from the heat and the sun and sweat and the sodding _sand._ God, he hated sand. Used to like it until it was between his toes for three days straight. He groaned, shaking away the ache in his head. Thinking hurt, he really should stop. His vision blurred as he took one, two more steps, forcing him to stop his walking. He hadn't stopped in what felt like days and the prospect of sitting down sounded better and better every minute.  _Maybe I could sit down for a tick,_ he thought,  _just for a moment. A moment off my feet won't hurt anyone._ He smiled dazedly to himself, imagining how much better he'd feel if he were rested. He could walk a few more miles if he slept. He could make it out of here if he could just close his eyes.  _God,_ but that sounded amazing. Closing his eyes and not needing to  _think._

 Then, the sky began to change. 

He looked up, brows furrowing as thick, dark clouds coiled and writhed above him, colour changing from grey to blue to green to a mixture of the three. The air about him was cooling, blowing past him in a delicious howl.  
Sweet, sweet rain began to fall, wetting the sand and John himself, bringing him to his knees, a delighted sob falling from his lips. He could cry. He probably was, he couldn't tell. It was raining and the heat was dissipating and it was  _wonderful._

The world around him was soaked, now, and he was laying on the sand-turned-mud, eyes closed, letting the rain pool in his mouth. He drank happily, feeling the coolness of the water seep into the marrow of his bones. He wanted to lie there forever, on his back, damp ground surrouding him, now velvety-smooth on the back of his burnt neck.

_John._

_  
_He sat up, looking around. He was sure that was thunder he'd just heard, but it didn't sound like thunder at all. It was a voice, deep and silky and _oh,_ so familier. He fell to his back again, listening to the  _John, John, John_ that reverberated through every clap of thunder. He felt as though he was floating-- no, flying. Earth seemed to fall away as he listened to that voice, his cracked lips curling into a smile as he settled into the warmth of the solitude of the storm.

_John._

_John._

_JOHN._

 

He woke with a start, feeling thin fingers on his shoulders. His eyes blearily opened to a dark figure leaning over his bed.  
  


"John." That voice again. It didn't have that soft, airy-quality anymore, no. It was real, there. And right in front of him.  
  
  
His eyes focused on a pale face, brows drawn in concern. "John, are you all right?"  
  
  
 _Sherlock,_ John realized,  _Sherlock. It was always, always Sherlock-bloody-Holmes._ He turned his gaze to the eyes that knew him so well, eyes that saw everything  _and_ observed. Eyes that were grey and blue and green all at once, beautiful and alien. Enchanting. Exquisite.  
  
He smiled. They reminded him of clouds. 


End file.
